


implosions and explosions (and the thin line between)

by mizdiz



Series: Going Down [2]
Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cunnilingus, Doggy Style, F/M, Momentary Ass Eating, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 17:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19706341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizdiz/pseuds/mizdiz
Summary: Nobody sees the beaten widow with the dead daughter getting ready to go supernova.





	implosions and explosions (and the thin line between)

After a beating Carol would always shower.

She would stand in a fog of steam, eyes shut tight, water drops sliding from her forehead, down the bridge of her nose, and across her lips like a gentle kiss. The hot water would massage the violence out of her muscles; would take the edge off the hatred. In the shower it was easy to let tears get lost and pretend like they were never there.

She showers daily here on the farm, even though she shouldn't; knows there are plenty of other people doing a lot of dirty jobs who deserve it more, and she shouldn’t hog the resource, but no one's gonna tell her no. She's the beaten widow with the dead daughter, and that's a free-for-all pass, at least until the next tragedy, and so she showers as much as she damn well pleases.

It's not working, though, she can't get it to work. The water pressure, weak but steady, sends water pulled from the well down her bare skin, but still she aches like her entire body is one, big bruise. When the droplets drip off the tip of her nose she can tell exactly which ones are tears. With the ambling walk of the remnants of what was once her daughter flashing in her mind every minute of every goddamn passing hour of every hellish day, she might have finally found a pain she can't pretend to wash away.

Today’s no different. Defeated again, she turns the old, scummy knob on the right to the off position. There's a knob on the left labeled with a faded "H", but hot water is a commodity even beaten widows with dead daughters aren't allowed to use with impunity.

She steps out of the tub, her calloused feet finding the bath mat, which catches the water she tracks out with her.

Instead of grabbing a towel, she stands in front of the mirror and takes stock of herself. Her grey hair, dripping, is growing longer every day. Her collarbone, peppered with droplets, is sharp and defined as it ever is. Her breasts, water sliding down the slopes of them, are small but respectable. This reflection is of some woman with a pretty face and body, and Carol doesn't recognize her, because the only thing she feels is a black, all-encompassing grief, and she doesn't understand how it hasn't manifested outwardly. She should be a dark void, or maybe a vicious black hole, sucking everything light around her and crushing it inside. But instead she just looks like a woman. A pretty face. A pretty body. Maybe she knows she's one step away from a cataclysmic implosion—or maybe an explosion, who's to say?—but you wouldn't know it by looking at her.

How long she stands there, she couldn't say. Finally, when it's not even worth it anymore, her hands find her towel. It's well-used, the material rubbed thin and rough, but she doesn't care. Nice little luxuries in a world like this just feel like cruel jokes. She dries herself off, puts her ratty clothes back on, and she heads for the door. She swings it open, lost in her own head, and is startled silly when she comes face-to-face with Daryl, whose hand is poised in a fist getting ready to knock.

His arm falls to his side like a weight. He gives her a blink-and-you-miss-it once over from head to toe, and for a second—just one single second—she feels like a pretty woman with a pretty face both inside and out. 

He’s covered in dirt and sweat and whatever other bits of nature he’s always coated in. She thinks about making a quip about him finally taking a shower, but knowing him he’d take it personally, and they don’t need any more awkwardness between them, what with the heavy ghost of Sophia always looming nearby.

Instead, she gives him a quick smile and a muttered, “excuse me,” before shouldering past him. She can feel his eyes on her all the way down the hallway. 

She doesn’t look back.

—-

Without the light pollution there are so many stars at night it makes Carol dizzy. She sits in the grass, knees bent with her arms wrapped around them, staring at the sky, wondering if this is what it feels like to be a star. To be burning inside, to be tumultuous, but to only be seen when the lights are turned off around you and someone decides to pay attention. She understands now why stars go supernova; why they explode outwards with such force that they demolish everything in their path, and then turn back in on themselves, repressing so forcefully that whole worlds get swallowed within them. 

There’s that power inside her, that anger and strength, that has her teetering on the edge of blowing up, or blowing in, and the line between is so thin she doesn’t know which way it will go, meanwhile nobody sees it. Nobody sees the beaten widow with the dead daughter getting ready to go supernova.

“Why you out here all by yourself?” 

Carol looks behind her sharply, taken off guard. Daryl’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, watching her with narrowed eyes. Carol, her hand at her waist, instinctively reaching for her knife, lowers her guard and lets her arm wrap back around her knees. Daryl’s deft, careful with his steps, and even though she’s never not on edge, he can sneak wherever he wants to and she’d never know until he was standing right there.

“I’m not far,” she says, turning her gaze back up at the skyline; back at the twinkling lights above.

“Shouldn’t leave the camp,” he says, and she snorts.

“You’re one to talk.”

“I can handle myself.”

“And you think I can’t?” Carol shoots him a glance. He watches her steadily for a long moment, before shrugging, conceding the point. If anyone in their group sees through her small and meek facade it’s him. He takes his hands from his pockets and comes and sits down beside her, mirroring her pose with his legs drawn to his chest. He rests his chin on his knees and looks out the same direction, out at the stars.

“You okay?” he asks.

“No,” she says. He doesn’t seem surprised. He lets out a low grunt of acknowledgement, but doesn’t press her for more. No one’s okay these days, not really, so it’d be absolutely absurd to assume that she would be. 

She can still hear Rick’s gunshot, a distant bang, putting her daughter down. 

Of course she’s not okay.

Of course not.

They sit in a comfortable silence, breathing in quiet tandem. Daryl’s company soothes her; dims the fury inside her so she’s not so close to bursting. He’s her safe place. She wonders absently if she’s his.

“I think I’m close to the edge,” she admits after their silence has dragged on a good long while. “I think I might explode.”

“I know,” Daryl says.

“I know you do,” she says. “No one else does.” She hazards a glance in his direction and finds him already looking at her.

“No one else pays attention,” he says after a beat.

They’re sitting much too close to one another. Their thighs are millimeters apart. Daryl exudes as much rough and ruggedness as always, except he’s still clean from his shower, so his usual thin coat of grime is cleared from his skin, and damnit if he doesn’t clean up well. 

“No they don’t,” she says. She knows he sees it when her eyes flit down to his lips, because he swallows hard, his fingers drumming an arrhythmic beat against his shin. He doesn’t lean away, though, he stays rooted in place. Daryl is a man who speaks through body language, and nothing about his body is telling her to back off, and so she doesn’t. 

Instead, she inches towards him carefully, like she’s approaching a skittish cat. He watches her warily, and jumps a little when her hand snakes its way up his arm, but still he doesn’t lean away. In fact, he leans in. Just a miniscule amount, but she sees it, and it encourages her to breach that last little breath between them, kissing him, slow and soft. 

She stays totally still until she feels his lips become pliable against her own. She knows the moment he yields to her because the stiffness in his muscles wanes. They unfold themselves from their sitting positions, and he lets her bring her arms up and around his neck, and, belatedly, she realizes that he’s doing the same to her, this tips of his fingers brushing against the cropped-but-ever-growing strands of her hair.

She runs her tongue along the seam of his lips, and his hesitation is brief, as after a passing moment he’s parting them for her and letting her in. Their tongues slide over one another, and he’s being so delicate with her. 

But she doesn’t want delicate. 

His touch reignites the few flames his presence burnt out earlier, and the explosion inside her begs to be let out. She pulls away from him, smirking when he tries to follow. She holds him back with her hands pressed against his shoulders, and he waits expectantly. Sternly, she tells him,

“Don’t be nice.” 

He blinks while he processes her command. Then, with a slight nod, he crashes his lips into hers again, any pretense of tenderness out the window. He’s no man from the cover of a harlequin romance novel, but Daryl isn’t skilless. He drags his teeth over her lower lip, and in response she presses her short nails into his skin. 

When she pulls back for a breath he takes a sudden hold of her chin in his hand, holding her still as he licks the spot where her jawbone meets her ear. He nibbles down the length of her neck, and tugs down the collar of her shirt with his free hand, sucking a bruise onto her collarbone. 

While he’s preoccupied, Carol works the button of his fly, tugging down the zipper. She shies away from his grasp, sinks to her knees, and he freezes. He takes hold of her chin again, but gently this time, and she looks up at him.

“You don’t gotta,” he whispers into the quiet night. She twists her head to plant a soft kiss on the inside of his wrist, and he recognizes it as the reassurance that it is, letting his arm drop, taking a deep breath as pushes his jeans and boxers halfway down his thighs, springing him free. 

A low noise comes from deep in his chest when she steadies him with her hand and takes him into her mouth. She’s good at this; knows she is. She was never allowed not to be. But she’s not doing this out of obligation. She’s doing this because she’s on the brink of going supernova, and he tastes the fuel she needs to get there. She circles her tongue around the tip, and his hand falls instantly to her head, his fingers grabbing hold of her hair that’s just long enough to take a handful of. He pulls just hard enough for it to be almost too much, but not quite, and she can tell he’s using restraint, and she loves that. She loves how much trust she has in him—that she can give him a wide open opportunity to hurt her, but knows with her heart and soul that he won’t. She takes him deeper, squeezing her thumb in a tight, closed fist in a trick she learned on the internet one day in the time Before about repressing her gag reflex.

“Wait,” he tells her not long after. She hesitates, and then slides away from him slowly, her tongue trailing against his shaft the whole way. She looks up at him, and he’s breathing heavy, lips parted slightly. He looks at her with a question in his eyes, but he can’t seem to say it. She hears it anyway.

_Do you want to?_ he asks silently. She gives him a purposeful nod, not breaking their eye contact. The hand in her hair loosens, and she sits back, undoing the laces on her boots, keeping a steady gaze that he seems simultaneously entranced and intimidated by. She gets back to her feet, stepping up and kissing him again, letting him get a taste of himself as she explores his mouth with her tongue. Without pulling away, he helps her push her pants and panties down until they pool in a heap at her feet. She angles her pelvis so that he brushes against her, and he grunts against her mouth.

She kicks out of her clothes, takes a couple steps back, and lets him look her over from head-to-toe. He starts towards her, but she holds up a hand and he pauses.

“Don’t be nice,” she reminds him. He nods in assent, before breaching the distance, taking hold of her by her upper arms. He pushes her lightly until she gets the idea and steps backwards. She doesn’t know what he’s doing until the backs of her legs bump into a tree stump. She barely has time to register it before he’s spinning her around and bending her over it. She hums in approval, uneven wood from the severed tree digging into the palms of her hands, but she pays it no mind. She waits for him to enter her, but instead, without warning, he bites her on the ass, just hard enough to elicit a noise of surprise from her. 

He kisses the spot where his teeth just were and pushes her between the shoulders so she’s bent in a sharper angle. He nudges her legs apart. She hears him shuffling out of his own shoes and pants, kicking them away carelessly and he drops to his knees, just as she did earlier. Instead of the length of him going inside her, she gets his tongue. She arches her back even steeper, the muscles along her spine straining. He’s holding her steady by gripping her ass, his mouth kissing her lower lips, and his tongue fucking her vigorously as he eats her pussy from behind. 

She whimpers. He’s striking a match and her blood is catching fire. Everything inside her is flame, and he’s feeding it. It’s fighting to get out of her. All that fury and strength; all that sadness and pain. She was teetering on the edge of implosion, but he’s pushing her to the brink of explosion. He twirls his tongue around her entrance in an obscene way that has her fighting against herself. His face is buried, his fingers digging into her skin, and she’s about to go supernova.

He gives her one long lick from her front to the back, where he does that tongue twirling _thing_ again, and that’s it. She’s done for. She gasps. The explosion overtaking her is tremendous. His hand finds her mouth, muffling the sounds she can’t help but scream out. Her body rattles, energy wafting off of her in waves upon waves. He nips at her ass again, and she groans, her forehead resting against the tops of her hands. 

When she’s spent everything she has to give, that’s when he takes her, seeking his own form of release. She makes lazy moans as he plows himself into her, hard and fast. He feels so good, and she takes it, soaking up every thrust, until he’s grunting again, holding her by the hips, emptying himself into her. 

He doesn’t pull out right away, nor does she move to stand. They both take a minute to appreciate the closeness of the other; to appreciate that for a brief time, they managed to make everything okay. Even a dollop of okay in this world is worth its weight in gold.

Eventually, they have no choice but to separate. He pulls out of her and helps her stand. She stretches the kinks out of her back and arms, his cum dribbling down the inside of her thigh. She turns to face him, and his head is ducked, lip between his teeth. She takes a finger and gently lifts his chin up. He smiles at her—small, but genuine. He goes and gathers up his clothes, putting them back on, and she does the same. 

Instead of heading back, however, she sits back down in the grass—knees bent; arms wrapped around. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Daryl makes to leave, but he pauses. After a brief debate, he goes over to her and ghosts his lips across her cheek.

“Come back soon,” he whispers. She nods without looking at him. She doesn’t hear him leave, because Daryl is deft, but she knows he does. She looks back up at the sky.

Hundreds of stars are within sight; several trillion out of sight. Who knows how many are going supernova? Are exploding? 

She knows how they feel. 

She lays down onto her back, folding her hands over her belly, and sighs.

The line between explosion and implosion isn’t thin. They’re linked together; can’t have one without the other. Black holes come from supernovas, after all. So dark and dense that not even light can escape them. 

She closes her eyes and breathes, Daryl's touch still between her legs like a phantom pain, and she wonders when it’ll be her time to swallow the universe, too.

**Author's Note:**

> "going down" was initially going to be a linear narrative, but instead i think i'm just gonna make it be where i dump all my "daryl eats pussy" pwp oneshots. hope that's chill.
> 
> i'm at a friend's house out of state and while i was writing this, more than once her 6 year old and 4 year old popped in and were like, "HEY WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" and i was like, "......leave." 
> 
> not updating "check engine light" is giving me anxiety. for those of you who read that, reminder that it won't be updated likely until the 15th, and until then you will just be getting a bunch of slutty oneshots. CEL has 4-5 chapters left total, if that's of interest to anyone.
> 
> anyway, here's my first porn of the week. it was a specific request. here's hoping you got what you wanted from it, anonymous requester.
> 
> to that end, lmk if you have any requests.
> 
> k, im gonna go hang out with children, somewhat begrudgingly.
> 
> peace,  
> -diz


End file.
